


Softer Than Lead, Harder Than Steel

by Julibean19



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Violence, Dead Sheriff Stilinski, Guns, Hate Sex, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murderers, Past Chris Argent/Peter Hale, Spanking, The Argent Family, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-09 08:04:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11665017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julibean19/pseuds/Julibean19
Summary: Stiles eyes the gun and Peter’s stance and nearly laughs out loud.  “You don’t just pull a gun on someone when they’re just trying to have a perfectly civilized conversation.  Who raised you?”“Tell me what you’re doing here right now or I will put three bullets in you before you hit the ground.”“Only three?” Stiles asks, smile growing by the minute.  “Are you sure you’re in the right profession?”The one in which Peter is a hitman and Stiles keeps getting in the way.  And then there's hate sex.





	Softer Than Lead, Harder Than Steel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mysenia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysenia/gifts).



> Special thanks to Mal for putting together this exchange and helping me agonize over this title. Thank you to Femmme as well for being generally awesome and holding my hand while I attempted present tense for the second and probably last time.

Peter is being hunted.

It’s not the first time and he’s certain it won’t be the last, but nevertheless, it’s exhausting.  He's not 100 percent sure who the threat is this time, but there's no shortage of people who want him dead.  He walks quickly, but deliberately, a well practiced pace.  Too fast and people notice you, give you funny looks, catch your eye, and you don't want anyone remembering your face.  Too slow and you're equally suspicious.  No one likes a loiterer.  If you look around too frequently or hustle like there is something to be afraid of, others will do the same.

No.  Peter has a method.  There’s a method to everything he does, which is not to say that thinking on your feet isn't a vital part of killing people for a living, but that resourcefulness also needs to come with a bit of a practiced air, otherwise what's the point?  Peter is not an amateur, and he refuses to look like one.  He remembers what he was like when he first started, young, angry, reckless.  Those are things he can't afford to be anymore.  He has a job to do, and he's going to get it done as quickly and cleanly as humanly possible.

Fifty million dollars.

That's a big hit.  The biggest Peter has been given the opportunity to bag, and he's not going to let it slip through his fingers.  It's a point of pride, not greed, not at this point in the game.  Peter's been around the block a time or twenty and knows what his strengths are.  He's not going to let fifty million go to some other two-bit assassin.  There is no way in hell he's going to let someone else take home that prize, even if he doesn't need the money.  It's the principle of the matter.  He's the best hit man money can buy and he wants everyone to be aware of that fact.

Even so, this mark is proving more difficult than he bargained for.  The man is heavily guarded, so heavily that he enters and exits buildings under a canopy.  There are guards around him at all times, and if he stays anywhere for more than a few minutes, snipers are put on outposts around the building.  If he wasn't so pissed off, Peter would be impressed.  That kind of protection is expensive, even if he’s sure he could pick the guards off one by one if he had to.  But that wasn't how it was done.  No hit man worth their salt made a scene.  They don't leave witnesses and they don't rouse suspicion.  Peter would just have to do this the old fashioned way, good detective work, reconnaissance.  It’s been a while, but Peter can pull it off.

At least he thought he could until he realized he was being followed.  It wasn't clear to him at first whether or not the men were part of the ambassador's security detail, just sweeping the immediate area or whether they were watching for Peter in particular, but after a few days it became clear, Peter would have to lay low.

Peter hates lying low.  It’s dirty, disgusting, and so far beneath him.  He likes to stay in four or five star hotels and order room service when he’s out on a job, not dart around in damp alleyways ruining his soft-as-butter leather loafers.   _Shut up_ , they’re perfectly acceptable attire for an assassin, they barely make a sound as he walks, and that’s what’s really important.  Why shouldn't he look good while he works?

It rankles Peter, that he has to go to such lengths to keep out of sight.  Usually he’s in and out, no problem, but this time around he’s been forced to go back to his roots, those dark days he spent sleeping in stairwells and stealing food from farmer's markets while he hunted for himself, back when it was personal.  It had taken him a long time, but he had finally left those days behind and he wanted to keep it that way.  No one is going to bring him down to that level again.  He had come, seen, and conquered when he was still a teenager.  He had paid his dues and now he’s at the top of his game.  Grumpy, but determined, Peter finds that he would do a lot for fifty million dollars, or at least the pride of being the one who deserves fifty million dollars.

That’s how he finds himself in the quiet corner of a coffee shop drinking an Americano as slowly as he can stand, eyes darting over his newspaper.  It’s cliche, but it’s cliche for a reason.  Sure, it might have looked less conspicuous if he was slurping down a frappuccino and watching Netflix on his iPad, but he had been sleeping rough the past several nights.  He had also lost his expensive equipment long ago, not able to carry much or stray too far from the guarded radius of the Grand Marquis Hotel where the ambassador was attending a month-long summit.

"Want a refill?" the waitress asks, eyebrows raised in derision.  Peter has been sitting there all day, only buying two drinks over ten hours.  It’s nearing closing time and she’s clearly done with him.

"No, thank you," Peter replies, folding up his newspaper and pulling away from the table.  There are two men across the street smoking that he has his eye on, so he slinks out the back door, darts between some dumpsters, ignoring the soft footsteps that had started up behind him.  Jumping up a dangling fire escape ladder as quietly as he can, Peter disappears into the night before they can even hope to catch up.  

As Peter settles into his nest, silently mourning the plush hotel bed he could be sleeping in and patently ignoring the murmurs of the couple shooting up in the corner, he contemplates his situation.  He hates to admit it, but he knows he's getting on in years.  While 42 isn't old by any stretch, it's ancient in his line of work.  Most others are in the ground before they hit thirty.  It might be because he started young, has more experience than the other idiots who try to get into the game late without the appropriate training or mindset.  Maybe it’s because he’s used to relying on only himself.  Either way, he’s survived this long because he’s decisive and resourceful, and those characteristics haven’t dimmed as he aged.

If any positives could come from Peter's family being brutally murdered, he supposes it would be his stellar career as a professional killer.  If he hadn't had the motivation to get revenge on the Argent family, he never would have gotten into this business in the first place.  It’s dirty, but he hardly notices anymore.  Once there’s blood on your hands, it doesn't seem worth the effort to wash it off again.  Plus, Peter prides himself on his very clean kills, it really isn’t necessary to get close enough to the victim to get spatter on you anyway.  Unnecessary brutality is gauche, to say the least.  It’s best saved for personal vendettas, not paid contracts.  Why expend excess effort on strangers?  Peter has better things to be doing.  

He tosses and turns on the cold, splintered floor.  It may be petty and overly optimistic, but Peter hopes he can make his hit as soon as possible and get out of this town.  He's eager to get back to the finer things in life, like clean clothes and expensive wine.  He spends an hour making a mental list of who is most likely to want him dead, but it’s too long to bother taking seriously.  Unless he gets close enough to these people to recognize them or hear what they have to say, he’s not going to have any idea who hired them.  

He needs intel, but he hardly cares enough to bother gathering it.  Once you've been around the block as many times as Peter has, the stories all seem to blur together.  This man slept with my wife, this person sunk my company with some underhanded corporate espionage, this woman stole money from me, this motherfucker is inching in on my turf.  It doesn't matter what they’ve allegedly done, Peter just shoots the bullets and collects the paychecks.  Still, it would be nice to know who’s out for his blood this time.  They'd be easier to take down if he knew who they worked for or what they were after.

Peter isn't an idiot, he knows he's been in the game too long and holds too many secrets.  He's only surprised it's taken someone this long to want him dead enough to send multiple gunmen.  Usually, it’s only one guy.  He almost laughs about it now.  Did they really think one guy would be able to take him down?  Some of these kids were young enough to be his children, reckless and overeager.  It’s only too easy to finish them off when they get close.  What were they teaching kids these days?  Not a single one of them has been able to knock him out in hand to hand.  Peter is convinced they’ve spent their youths playing first person shooters on their parents’ couches thinking that made them the next big thing with a rifle.  He’s proved them wrong time and time again, not a single one of them can land a punch.

It isn't just the young ones though, Peter has taken out a lot of heavy hitters in his day too, Martinez, Sharapova, and Cerceau are the ones that really stand out in his memory.  He wears their deaths like feathers in his hat.  He’s hung his reputation on being able to take down even the best fighters, the most heavily guarded, the legends.  And yet here he is, huddled up in the corner of an abandoned building, listening to some kids do drugs and have wildly unimaginative sex.  Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

This is it, Peter has had enough.  This is the last night he’s going to spend in this worn out henley, leather jacket balled up under his head, rifle disassembled in his backpack.  Tomorrow is the day.  He'll hit his mark, get proof of death, and be on the next plane out of this hellhole.  All he has to do is find the right perch.  Easier said than done.

 

* * *

 

The harsh light of morning wakes Peter up early.  For some reason, it feels brighter than usual, even though it’s shining through several layers of grime and a condemnation notice.  He lunges up, peers over at the junkies and sees that they are still breathing before tossing on his jacket and heading out the door.

Checking his phone, Peter sees that it is far too early for any sane person to be awake.  What he really wants is his laptop, but it had been trashed along with the rest of his belongings a few weeks ago.  Someone had tossed his hotel room in a fit of rage after finding he’d slipped off the balcony and away from their pitiful attempts at assassinating an assassin.  Really, it had been raining bullets and Peter didn't think he needed to stick around to see how many he could take before he was just another body on the carpet for housekeeping to find.  Blood was so had to get out, he had really been doing them a favor.  

Peter heads to the bakery in the center of town that opens the earliest.  He counts out four dollars and thirteen cents and hands it over in exchange for a cup of espresso and an almond croissant.  Digging through the outer pocket of his backpack, Peter pulls out a mechanical pencil and shakes out his paper, folding it so the crossword puzzle is easily accessible.  He’s just working out the clue for 12-down when a whirlwind of a man blows into the bakery.  

The man is slim and clumsy, catching the strap of his low-slung messenger bag on the door handle and nearly choking himself to death on his way inside.  The shop girl seems to know him though, teasing him about the stains on his flannel sleeves and the general scruffiness of his hair.  He orders a disgusting sounding drink with at least 8 shots of flavorings and gleefully accepts the offer of a free maple doughnut before making a boisterous exit.  

Peter tries not to look up when he knocks his forehead into the glass door, but he can’t help himself.  The man catches his eye and winks, _fucking winks at him_!  It’s absolutely ridiculous, but Peter can do nothing more than narrow his eyes and give a curt nod before returning to his crossword.  He sits there as long as he can stand it and then heads back to his usual haunt where he has a good view of the ambassador’s hotel.  

He’s not been sitting there for more than fifteen minutes before the slim man is back, spinning like a top and heading to the counter for another absurd drink. This cashier seems to know the man as well, calls him _Stiles_ and offers him yet another free pastry and a day-old sandwich.  Peter can’t tell if the girl is sweet on him or being kind to a vagrant.  Either way, Stiles sweeps out again grandly, waving at Peter as he goes as if they’re old friends.  

Seeing no more of an opening than he had the day before, Peter leaves the cafe and eats a modest dinner at the local diner before sleeping in the drug den again.  Tonight, it’s empty, and Peter revels in the privacy.  It’s a simple pleasure, but he hasn’t jerked off in days and takes it slow, thinking about nothing and no one in particular until he comes with a grunt.  He wipes his hand on a scrap of old newspaper and falls into a deep sleep.  

The next day, he startles awake, hearing one of his proximity traps jingling.  He’s up and out a broken window and onto the roof before whoever it is manages to make it inside.  Things are worse than Peter feared.  He’s going to have to find a new safe house if he has any intention of getting to sleep tonight, and more so than that, he needs to get a move on hitting his mark.  Three days of idleness has nearly driven him to madness and he doesn’t know how much longer he can dodge his tails before he needs to pick one off as an example.  He’s been trying to lay low, but there’s only so far he’s willing to go.

Peter spends the day on the ledge of a building, watching bodyguard and hitman alike scurry to and fro like mice.  He doesn’t mean to eat in the same place so often, but the diner cooked their french fries just the way he likes them and he hasn’t been able to resist becoming a return customer.  He’s just tucking into his caprese chicken when someone takes the seat next to him.  

“Hi,” the man says, holding a hand out over Peter’s plate.  “I’ve seen you around a lot recently.  I’m Stiles.”

“Peter.”

“What brings you to Southaven, Peter?” Stiles asks, thanking the waiter for his soda when it is brought over.  He hadn’t even ordered yet.  Was this Stiles person a regular all over town?  Was he a bookie, or a politician?  Why did everyone seem to owe him dinner?

”Work,” Peter says simply, a bland smile painted on his face.  He turns back to his sandwich, hoping the man will take the hint, but no such luck.

“And what kind of work is that?” Stiles asks, again thanking the waiter when a pile of curly fries is dropped in front of him.  Peter’s eyes narrow.  Curly fries weren’t even on the menu.  

“The private kind,” Peter says, taking a bite of his meal.  A full mouth does nothing to deter the man from continuing the conversation though, much to Peter’s dismay.

“And what kind of work requires that you sit around and drink coffee all day.  You never have a laptop.  I don’t think I’ve seen you do an ounce of work in weeks.”

“You’ve been watching me for weeks?” Peter asks, unable to stop himself.  He’d only noticed the man four days ago, walking past the front window of the local pub.

“Not very observant, are you?” Stiles asks, shoving a handful of fries in his mouth in a most undignified manner.  Peter frowns at him, both disgusted with his manners and angry that he hadn’t noticed the man sooner.  

Peter’s annoyance grows.  He is observant.  It’s his fucking job to see and hear everything at all times.  He isn’t going to be duped by a clumsy young man who may very well be lying to him.  

“The man in the corner is watching you,” Stiles says under his breath, leaning in a bit and holding his hand over his mouth.  “Three o’clock.”

Peter picks up his glass of water and glances to the side as he sips on the straw.

“Fuck, you’re bad at this,” Stiles snickers and then slurps on his soda.  It’s Coke, syrupy and sweet, Peter can smell the sugar from his own seat.  He licks his lips.  Peter hasn’t had a soda in years, and now he wants nothing more than a sip from this strange man’s straw.

Pulling his thoughts back to the task at hand, Peter has to admit that Stiles is right.  There is a man at his three o’clock watching him.  Giving a pained glance at his remaining fries, Peter pulls his wallet from his pocket and leaves a twenty on the counter before taking his leave.

“You’re welcome!” Stiles calls as he strides out the front door.  There’s no use in sneaking around now, he’s already been spotted.  Even so, he’s quick on his feet and manages to find a good vantage point and load his handgun before the man catches up with him.  It’s all too easy to put a bullet through the man’s forehead, reholster his gun, and disappear into the night once more.  

 

* * *

 

Peter continues to see Stiles everywhere he goes.  He hates the man.  

Stiles probably has a warm bed to go to at night and a girlfriend to fuck when he gets that itch.  Peter hasn’t had a decent shower in over a week and desperately needs a toothbrush.  He can’t believe that he’s jealous of the slim man he keeps seeing around every corner, but no matter where he goes, someone is pleased to see Stiles.  When Peter walks into a restaurant, the waitresses fight over who gets to serve him and then conveniently forget to bring him refills when they realize he won’t flirt back.  

He knows it’s irrational, but he hates the man anyway.  Peter has been hopping from drug den to crack house trying to keep out of sight, and Stiles keeps prolonging his job.  Every time the man walks in a shop, Peter’s eyes go to him immediately, distracting him from the task at hand.  Whenever his attention is drawn away, someone inevitably gets the drop on Peter and makes him change his plans for the day.  He’s taken out another three of his tails but finds that he never has the time to set up his own hit.  

It all comes to a head when Peter finds himself still sitting in the public library a few minutes before closing time.  He’s been pouring over the blueprints for the historic buildings in town, memorizing entrances and exits.  It took some legwork, but he’s seen a copy of the ambassador’s schedule and knows he’s due to see an opera at the concert hall at the end of the week.

Peter finds a few blank pages in the recycling bin and sketches out copies of what he thinks he’ll need most.  The lights have dimmed, but he only has a few more things to do, one more route to mark before he can put the blueprint book away.  

“You know we closed five minutes ago,” a familiar voice says from over his right shoulder.  

“You again,” Peter groans, rolling his eyes before he even bothers to look.

“Yes, me again, saving your ass, again,” Stiles says, pulling on Peter’s sleeve and forcing him to move out of the way just as a loud creaking sound alerts them that someone is forcing their way in through the back door.  

“Leave it,” Stiles orders, yanking Peter away from the table as he scrambles to grab the blueprints he had been working on.  “It’s not like they don’t know what your plan is going to be.”

Peter looks up at the man, incredulous.  _Who does he think he is?_  He’s practically a teenager still.  He couldn’t possibly know anything about Peter’s chosen occupation.  

“For fuck’s sake!” Stiles shouts when Peter makes no effort to move out of the way.  Peter just stares at him, brow furrowed as he tries to suss him out.  “We can play 20 questions later, right now, you need to fucking get down!” he shouts this time, practically tackling Peter to the ground just as the bullets start to fly.

“Follow me if you want to live,” Stiles says, completely serious as he starts to army crawl deeper into the library.  He clearly knows his way around if the purposeful route is anything to go by.  

“Why are you following me?  You’re everywhere I go,” Peter groans as Stiles yanks him into a basement closet and then stacks boxes of cleaning products into a makeshift step stool.  His eyes widen as Stiles pushes a ceiling tile out of the way and hoists himself into a crawl space.  

“Of course I’m not following you,” Stiles says, sticking his head back down through the hole.  “I work here, you idiot.”

“Come here often?” Peter asks when he’s joined Stiles in the rafters.  

“On occasion,” Stiles quips, smiling when he sees that Peter has kicked over their stack of boxes and replaced the ceiling tile behind them.  “So what did you do?  To have these heavies following you?  Fuck someone’s wife?  Knock over a liquor store?  Bank heist?”

“Who are you, Nancy Drew?” Peter asks, following along obediently.

“Cop’s kid.  I know my crime stories,” Stiles says, pushing through an air vent after a few minutes and leading them out into an alley.  He replaces the grate and then immediately ducks, a bullet whizzing by his head.  “Let’s go,” he mutters, diving down one alley and then the next, narrowly dodging the little bursts of broken concrete and brick that explode every time a bullet hits the walls of a building.  

Peter follows closely, in awe of how Stiles seems to know exactly where he’s going.  They stop for a moment, backs against a wall while footsteps pound down the pavement toward them.  “Make three rights and a left.  You’ll find a drain large enough to climb through.  At the end, there’ll be an abandoned factory.  Climb up to the third floor and hide out there.  There’s a good vantage point.  You’ll be able to see if anyone’s coming for you if you’re a halfway decent spy.”

Peter opens his mouth to argue, but Stiles just rolls his eyes and huffs.  “Don’t even try denying it.  I’ve seen you all over town, and I know that backpack isn’t full of chocolate chip cookies and comic books.  “Now get out of here.  I’ll lead them off and lose them on my way home.”

“Why are you doing this?” Peter asks, eyes narrowed.

“You’re nice to look at.  It’d be a shame to come across your body with a hole in your head,” Stiles says quickly before darting off.

Peter is more than a little bit pissed off that this dumb kid has managed to notice his tails when he didn’t.  Stiles has seen him everywhere, and he wasn’t even properly looking.  

 

* * *

 

For the next few days, Peter actually lays low.  He doesn’t go into any shops, he buys a loaf of bread and a few peaches from a farmer’s market and finds a good lookout perch of the balcony of the concert hall.  For three days, he doesn’t see Stiles at all.  It feels good to be back under cover.  Peter keeps a closer eye on his surroundings, always on high alert.  By week’s end, Peter is on his perch, rifle assembled and aimed at the balcony door.  He’s lined up his shot perfectly, tested the wind, and left his rifle on its stand, ready and waiting for intermission.  

He’s minutes away when he hears the unwelcome sound of someone walking up the emergency stairs behind him.  Unwilling to move his rifle—it’s no good for close range shots anyway—Peter pulls his handgun and aims it directly at Stiles’ head.  

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Peter hisses, flicking the safety off his gun and pulling the slide back.

“Just fancied a chat,” Stiles says in a fake English accent.  

Peter’s eyes narrow.  He honestly can’t tell if Stiles is joking, insane, or is actually a very skilled hitman who has been sent to kill him.  “I’m not going to chat with you, I’m going to kill you,” he says simply, adding his left hand to his gun, teacupping it.  

“No, you’re not,” Stiles says, smiling broadly.  Stiles eyes the gun and Peter’s stance and nearly laughs out loud.  “You don’t just pull a gun on someone when they’re just trying to have a perfectly civilized conversation.  Who raised you?”

“Tell me what you’re doing here right now or I will put three bullets in you before you hit the ground.”

“Only three?” Stiles asks, smile growing by the minute.  “Are you sure you’re in the right profession?”

“Just sit there and be quiet,” Peter says, pointing at the ground in the corner of the alcove.  “If you make me miss this shot, I’ll kill you in the most painful way I can imagine.”

“I’m sure I’ve had worse,” Stiles says, but seats himself anyway.  “I was kidnapped every other year when I was in elementary school.  And I was a mouthy kid.”

“You don’t say,” Peter drawls, crouching down to look through the scope of his rifle once more.  He glances at his watch and sees that there are only a few minutes left until intermission.  

“What’s this guy worth to you anyway?” Stiles asks, scooting forward on his bottom until he’s nearly close enough to look through the scope himself.  “You’ve been after him for ages.  It must be a lot.”

“Fifty million,” Peter says simply, turning the dial on his scope half a millimeter and frowning.  

Stiles whistles making Peter wince.  “Damn.  I’d kill me too if I lost out on fifty million.  You’re not going to get him from here though,” Stiles says, eyes twinkling with amusement.  “Only five guys in the world could make that shot over this distance.”

“I’m one of the five,” Peter says, tone clipped.  He’s losing his patience with this cop’s kid.  A few more minutes of this and he may shoot the kid anyway.  He raises his gun again, a mere inch from Stiles’ temple and says, “Keep quiet or I’ll shoot you.  Did you not hear me the first time?”

“I heard you,” Stiles says, completely unphased by the gun.  Peter decides then and there that Stiles is absolutely insane.  “I just thought you should know that there are three guys on their way here.  You left a trail a mile wide.”

“I did not!” Peter argues, keeping one eye on the balcony.  

“You absolutely did.  You’re just lucky I’m a better hunter than most of the ACME henchmen they have after you.”

“You’re no better than them.  You’re loud and clumsy and I can hear you coming a mile away.”

“You should hear me come while you’re much closer… like inches away.  I think you might like it.”

Peter doesn’t respond, though he eyes Stiles curiously.  

“You ever think maybe I’m letting you hear me on purpose?  You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

“Maybe you should quit bragging.  I’m the one with a gun to your head,” Peter reminds him, tilting his head to the side, smirk growing.

“You might want to move an inch to the left.”

“I can hit you just fine from here.”

“I’m not kidding.  Move an inch to the left or you’ll regret it.”

“God, you’re annoying.  I should just kill you now and be done with it.”

“Fuck you’re a pompous one.  Shall I count to three, or would you rather?”

“Count down to what?  Your own death?  Sure, go ahead,” Peter says, mildly amused by the man’s antics.  

“One.”

“Stiles, I swear to God, if you distract me from this hit I’m going to sell your skin.”

“Two.”

“You asked for it,” Peter says, taking proper aim again.

Before Stiles can count to three, Peter is knocked to the ground, head hitting the concrete hard.  Rocks rain down on their heads, blown from their cover by a huge spray of rifle bullets.  

“For fuck’s sake you are completely ridiculous,” Stiles says, laid out on top of Peter whose handgun had been tossed to the side when his hand hit the ground.  

“How did you do that? There is no way you saw that coming,” Peter argues, making no move to get out from under Stiles.  Rocks rain down on their heads in larger and larger chunks, but Peter only has eyes for the young man laid across his chest.

“I’m Batman.”

“No seriously, you saved my life, while I had a gun on you, why the fuck would you do that?”

“We were in the middle of an argument and I was winning.”

“You were not!” Peter shouts.  It morphs into a groan when Stiles elbows him in the stomach trying to get up.  

“Let’s just say whoever gets us out of here wins,” Stiles suggests, holding out his hand for Peter to take.  

Packing up his rifle quickly, Peter takes one last rueful look at the balcony where the ambassador probably stood just thirty seconds ago and follows Stiles down the stairs.  He checks the clip on his handgun on the way and finds himself satisfied. 

Bullets rain down around them, but again, Stiles seems to know exactly where he’s going.  He leads them down several alleys, through an overgrown park, and past a rusted out gate that’s covered in ivy.  Finally, they stop for a breath in a garden alley.  Stiles glances around and then crouches down to open basement grate that blends into the underbrush perfectly.  If he hadn’t had a key, Peter wouldn’t have expected the rusted out lock to be of any use.  

Peter follows quickly and lets Stiles close the gate behind him.  They walk through a dirt tunnel for fifty yards before they come to an ordinary looking cellar door.  When Stiles turns on the overhead light, Peter is shocked by what he sees.

Not only does Stiles live in this hidey hole, but it’s got every modern luxury.  He sees a router and a laptop, a tv and a refrigerator, even a toaster oven that Stiles seems to do most of his cooking in.  There are books and pillows strewn all over the place, empty ramen wrappers in the trash can and a full pot of coffee on the butcher block counter.

“My father was the county sheriff,” Stiles answers the unasked questions without prodding.  “He died a few years ago and I’ve been on my own ever since.  I’ve worked at like every business in town, but the library is the only one that’s lasted.”

“You don’t have any friends?  Why are you living down here by yourself?” Peter asks, setting his backpack down in the corner and perusing Stiles’ book collection.  “It’s a little creepy.”

“You’re one to talk.  I know you’ve been sleeping in that drug den on Marshall Ave,” Stiles says chuckling.  He throws himself across the daybed and crosses his legs.  

“I can’t believe you’ve been watching me that long,” Peter says.  He wants to laugh, but really it’s more impressive than anything.  Stiles may have been flailing around when he’d caught Peter’s notice, but there were plenty of times he hadn’t seen him at all.  But Stiles had clearly been watching him for much longer than he knew.  He hadn’t slept in the den on Marshall in weeks.

“I have a brother, Scott.  Though he’s married now and I don’t like to worry him and Kira about anything if I can help it.”

Peter nods, like he understands, and seats himself on the floor with his legs crossed.  He leans back on his hands, taking the time to stretch every vertebra in his back now that he’s not on watch.  

“What about you?” Stiles asks, folding his arms behind his head as he reclines.  “I know what brought you to town.  Fifty million would bring anyone here.  But how’d you get into your line of work?”

“Bad breakup,” Peter says gruffly, leaving it at that.  He lays down on the floor then, enjoying the coolness of the smooth rock beneath his skin.  

“Must have been one hell of a falling out if it left you with a gun in your hand,” Stiles muses, propping himself up on one elbow.

“A gun in my hand and hatred in my heart,” Peter says as if reciting poetry.  

“So dramatic.”

“You’re the one who waited until the last second to pull me out of the way of that bullet.”

“Well, you were kind of pissing me off.  I was weighing my options,” Stiles teases, laughing himself hoarse.  “I don’t have to work today,” he says after he catches his breath.  “So I think you should probably stay here and watch some movies with me.”

“Depends on the movie,” Peter says, though he knows he doesn’t have any better options.  Every one of his safe houses has been compromised and Stiles’ offer is better than nothing.

“You look like a man who appreciates the classics,” Stiles says, hopping up to pull out a crate full of DVD cases.  “ _Casablanca_?  Or _On the Waterfront_?”

“The first one,” Peter says, lunging off the ground to settle himself on the edge of Stiles’ bed.  

“I knew you’d be a romantic,” Stiles says, queuing up the movie.  

They settle on the bed together, and Peter finds himself relaxing.  As skilled an escape artist as Stiles seems to be, he doesn’t see the man as a threat.  After an hour Stiles makes them dinner.  It’s only Tater Tots and Coors Light, but to Peter, it tastes like ambrosia.  It’s comfortable, the quiet companionship.  He expected Stiles to talk through the entire movie, but he doesn’t.  Barely fidgeting, Stiles just sips on his beer and stares at the screen, transfixed.  They watch _To Catch a Thief_ next and laugh out loud at the dated dialogue, something neither of them would dare to do to _Casablanca_.  

“I slept with the enemy,” Peter says softly as the credits roll a few hours later.  

“Ohh, juicy.  Tell me more,” Stiles says, smiling.  It’s not a funny story, but Peter isn’t offended.  It was juicy, romantic, and so sexy at the time.  He doesn’t mind filling in the details when Stiles prompts him.  

“I was just a kid.  You know how you feel like nothing can touch you when you’re sixteen and in love.  I let Chris touch me.  I didn’t even try to resist him.  He was older and brooding and handsome.  But what he really was was a distraction.”

Stiles listens quietly, respectfully even.  Peter tries not to be impressed.

“He got me out of the way, got all the information he needed from me during pillow talk, and his family killed mine.  Burnt our home to the ground.  Eight people dead, and it was my fault.  I was thinking with my dick and my family paid the price.  My parents, my siblings, even three of my nieces and nephews.”

“Those motherfuckers,” Stiles says.  It shouldn’t be funny, but it is.  The dry delivery has Peter laughing out loud, shaking the daybed with his raucous laughter.  

“I killed them.  All those motherfuckers,” Peter says.  “I was sixteen and I hunted them all down, shot them all with an illegal gun I bought at a pawn shop.  I got all of them but two.  Chris and his father.  They must be the ones after me now, wrapping up old loose ends.”

“Well, they’re not doing a very good job of it,” Stiles points out, leaning into Peter’s body as he speaks.  “I wasn’t even trying that hard and it was all too easy to keep running into you.  I know where you’ve slept every night for the past month.”

Peter thinks about pulling away, but the touch is warm and solid, something he hasn’t felt in a very long time.  He allows it, but reminds himself that it’s only temporary.  He’s revealed his secret, named names even, so he’ll have to kill Stiles in the morning.  That’s just the way it is.  No attachments, no accomplices.  It’s been his motto for years and it’s served him quite well.

“Someone caught wind of me after a while, the sixteen-year-old vengeance killer.  Offered me a job,” Peter says, smirking as he reminisces.  “I was quite good at it,” he adds, chuckling when Stiles rolls his eyes.

“You could use a refresher course.”

“Maybe I’m just running out of vengeance.  That’s what kept me going for years.  But I’m old now, and I’m tired of this life,” Peter admits, purposefully not giving his age.  “I’m just going to bag this ambassador, take my fifty million and retire on an island somewhere.  Just me on a sandy beach with a mai tai.”

“You’ve been here a month and you’re no closer to shooting that ambassador than you were when you got here,” Stiles points out, never passing up an opportunity to insult Peter’s skill.

“I nearly had him today,” Peter argues, jabbing Stiles in the stomach.  Stiles recoils away from the touch but then melts back into him, warming his body.  

“That shot was too far and you know it,” Stiles says, nudging Peter back.  

“You know nothing about it,” Peter grumbles.  He knows it was a bit of a longshot, but he’s made similar kills in the past.  If he hadn’t lost his rifle with the better scope, he would have made it no problem.  

“Cop’s kid, remember,” Stiles says, reaching blindly off the bed to find himself a cold tater tot.  “And I studied ballistics during my forensics degree.”

“But you didn’t finish?” Peter asks, already knowing the answer.

“What gave me away?” Stiles laughs, shutting off the tv and getting off the bed.  

“I figured you were living in a cave for a reason,” Peter says, watching Stiles flit around the room cleaning up.  After a few passes of the small apartment, Stiles goes under his bed and pulls out a shoebox.  He opens the lid and reveals a .357 Desert Eagle with a satin nickel finish.  The gun hasn’t been cleaned in ages, the metal dull, but Stiles treats it with a certain kind of reverence.

“My father was shot and killed on duty when I was fourteen,” Stiles says, picking up the gun and checking the chamber.  

Peter stares as his longer fingers flit over the magazine release, dropping the clip and sliding it back into place.  The movements are mesmerizing, and Peter can’t help but be drawn in closer.  The magazine is empty, and there are eight rounds rolling from one side of the box to the other as the mattress shifts.  It only holds nine in the clip.  Stiles shot this gun exactly once and left the rest of the box of ammo behind.

“I found the man who did it and killed him,” Stiles says simply, twirling a shell around between two fingers.  “Then I left home.”

“You were fourteen?” Peter asks, examining the gun when Stiles hands it over.  “I’m surprised you didn’t fall over.”

“I could hold my own at the range,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes and taking the gun back before settling it back in the box.  

“It was your father’s?” Peter asks, watching carefully as Stiles slides the shoebox back under the bed.  The shell he places on his nightstand at the head of the bed.  Peter knows for a fact that’s where it sits every night, watching over Stiles as he sleeps.  

“My grandfather’s even,” Stiles says, flopping back down on the bed next to Peter.  “I’m not really proud of it.  I never told Scott or anyone, but I know he’ll figure it out one day, so I stay away.”

“Well I’m proud of you,” Peter says, laying a hand on Stiles’ thigh without a thought as to why he’s doing it.  “And I think your brother wouldn’t mind.  Not if you were avenging your father.”

“Maybe,” Stiles says reluctantly before turning off the light and settling next to Peter to sleep.  They don’t speak another word, but Peter stays awake for a while, thinking about the gun underneath the bed and the young man next to him who used it.

 

* * *

 

Peter wakes before Stiles.  He considers waking him up to say thank you but thinks better of it.  He brushes his teeth and uses Stiles’ razor though before grabbing his backpack and heading out.  Heading back to the main room, Peter thinks about what he said the night before about killing Stiles in the morning.  He’s tempted and pulls the Desert Eagle from its box to load it.  He slides the safety off and aims it at Stiles, finger on the trigger.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, but eventually, Peter puts the safety back on the gun and slides it into the waistband of his jeans.  Satisfied, he tells himself he’s doing Stiles a kindness, saving him from himself and all the regret the gun represents.  Rifling through Stiles’ things, he finds paper and a pen and leaves Stiles a note.  

_You’re better than this.  You can do more.  I’ll take care of the gun.  Don’t worry about it anymore.  Find your brother and make things right.  You’ll never see me or the gun again.  Let yourself be free of it._

Taking his leave, Peter eats in a cafe and finds himself a new perch.  The ambassador is due to leave town in two days, and he hasn’t found another opening yet.  Frustrated, but unwilling to give up on the fifty million, Peter pays off more people than he’d really like and sets himself up in someone’s house for the night.  The tenants are on vacation and he’s taken every precaution he can think of to keep himself hidden.  

Feeling dirty, Peter throws his one set of clothes in the wash and turns the shower on as hot as he can stand it.  The water pressure is amazing, and Peter lets it pound his tired muscles into submission.  He scrubs himself and washes his hair at least three times before partaking in some leave-in conditioner.  The water revives him, and he lets the scent of the body scrub soothe him.  Just one more day, one more kill, and he’ll be done with this life.  Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.

He wraps a towel around his waist and heads back to the bedroom only to find Stiles sitting on the edge of the mattress, the Desert Eagle aimed directly at his chest.  

“You motherfucker,” Stiles says, eyes dead and dark.  

“How did you find me?” Peter says, though it really couldn’t matter less.

“Easily,” Stiles says, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.  

Peter holds his hands up, though it makes his towel slip lower on his hips.  “What do you want?”

“You had no right to take this from me,” Stiles says sharply.  “No fucking right.”

“I was trying to be helpful,” Peter says honestly, but Stiles doesn’t look like he cares.

“You were trying to make yourself a hero.  But I don’t need saving, you piece of shit,” Stiles spits, changing his aim to right between Peter’s eyes and taking a step forward.

“I’m sorry,” Peter says, wincing as his towel falls to the floor.  He makes no move to grab it, maintaining his surrender.  

“Fuck you,” Stiles says, jaw set tight.  

“Ask nicer,” Peter says, a smirk drawing across his face.  His hips hitch every so slightly as he changes his stance.  Stiles’ eyes flick down to his cock, which bobs at the movement, filling with blood as they speak.  

“Get your ass over here and hatefuck me into the floor,” Stiles says instead, flicking the safety back on the gun and tossing it to the bed before lunging at Peter.  

Taken off guard, Peter hits the floor hard.  Stiles pushes off the floor, punches him square in the jaw, and then mashes their mouths together.  Pain blooms across Peter’s face, but it only makes him harder.  He bites brutally at Stiles’ lips, just shy of drawing blood as his hands scramble to undress him.  Buttons pop off and scatter on the floor as Peter rips Stiles’ flannel shirt from his body.  

“That was my favorite shirt, you asshole,” Stiles groans.  Peter’s mouth bites into his collar bone hard and Stiles swears he can feel a bruise forming already.  “You’re asking for it.”

“And you’re going to give it to me,” Peter says, voice dark and husky as he paws at Stiles’ belt.  Stiles slaps his hands away roughly and pulls his pants down himself.  “Get on your hands and knees.”

“Fuck no,” Stiles says, pummeling Peter to the floor again and twisting his nipples unkindly.  

“Hands and knees or I’ll forget where the lube is.”

Stiles groans but does as he says, kicking off his pants and shoes as Peter rifles through the drawers once more for the bottle of lube he saw hidden earlier.  He drops himself to his forearms and lets Peter finger him open quickly and efficiently.  “Get on with it,” he hisses, wriggling his ass in the air until Peter’s palm comes down on it hard.

“Fuck you’re mouthy,” Peter says, smacking him again when Stiles lets out a low moan.  “You like that, do you?  I’d like to see this ass red and raw.”

“Make me feel it,” Stiles says over his shoulder, locking eyes with Peter for an instant before he’s spanked so hard his dick jerks violently and hits the floor.  

“Did you feel that?” Peter asks, shoving three fingers into Stiles’ hole without warning.  

“Harder,” Stiles whimpers as Peter rubs against his prostate relentlessly.  

Winding up, Peter smacks down hard with his left hand, evening out the red blush that’s formed on Stiles’ cheeks.  “God,” Peter says, biting his lip when his dick pulses painfully.  “How much more can you take?”

“I can take whatever you want,” Stiles says, challenging Peter.  He steels himself, locking his elbows and arching his back.  Peter removes his fingers and smacks down hard with both hands, watching Stiles’ ass jiggle.  He does it again, and again, panting with the exertion.  Stiles is making the most obscene noises, gasping and moaning.  It’s enough to make Peter’s mouth water.  

“Enough,” he mumbles into the floor after a few more minutes.  Peter can see the deep burn Stiles must be feeling with his naked eye.  The skin has gone blotchy and red and Peter wants to feel it between his teeth, so he does.  He leans down and bites, enjoying the yowl Stiles lets out as the sensation hits him.  Smirking to himself, Peter adds more lube to his hand and slides four fingers into Stiles’ loose hole.

“Look at you,” Peter purrs, content to watch Stiles mewl and writhe on his hand.  “You’re taking me so well.”  If he sounds proud, it’s because he is.  He’s not had many lovers who could take this much abuse without coming.  

“Get on with it or I’ll punch you in the face again,” Stiles groans, arching his back even further to look at Peter over his shoulder.  He folds his arms over his head and rests his forehead there, leaning down further.  

“You’re such a sweet talker,” Peter says, sliding in and bottoming out in one smooth stroke.  Stiles shudders and slumps forward with a whine.  

Unsatisfied with the angle, Peter grabs Stiles by the hips and turns him to the side.  The curve of Stiles’ stomach catches his attention and he covers it with his palm, spreading his fingers wide and pressing down to feel himself moving inside.  “Fuck, you feel incredible.”

“It’s the boiling heat of hatred,” Stiles says, flopping halfway onto his back as Peter pounds into him.  

“Then hate me all you like,” Peter says, sweat dripping down his hairline and onto his chest.  “Hate me more, if you can.”

“Maybe if you hit me again,” Stiles breathes, it’s half moan half laugh, but Peter immediately complies.  He hooks one arm under Stiles’ legs and drags him closer, freeing one hand to bring it down hard on Stiles’ hip.  A flush spreads there immediately, and Peter drags his cock out slowly, hitting Stiles again before he slips back in.  

“More,” Stiles says, but Peter wants to take his time.  He grabs a handful of Stiles’ ass and kneads it, deep and rough, loving the hiss of pain it pulls out of Stiles’ mouth at the sting.  “For fuck’s sake, fuck me harder.”

“I’ll fuck you exactly how I like, for as long as I like,” Peter says, but pulls Stiles’ body into him harshly all the same.  Stiles’ limbs are warm and relaxed, flopping easily as Peter pounds into him.  

“Fuck yes,” Stiles says, pressing his hands into the floor to stabilize himself.  With that little bit of leverage, Peter’s dick hits even deeper, filling him up to the brim.  “Yes, just like that.  Harder.”

Peter bites down on his lip and does all he can.  Testing Stiles’ flexibility, he throws one leg over his shoulder and changes the angle, propping Stiles’ long legs up and gripping his thighs tight.  Stiles whimpers as Peter rubs against his prostate.  He squeezes down tight on Peter’s dick, nearly bringing him off right then and there.

“Don’t you dare,” Peter growls, thrusting forward with all his might and yanking Stiles back onto him over and over.  

“Fuck, harder,” Stiles all but screams again, unable to fall over the edge.  

Sick of Stiles’ orders, Peter nearly folds him in half, dropping his hands to the floor and mashing their mouths together.  “Bite your tongue,” he says, humping down into the floor, making Stiles back scratch and scrape against the wood.  

“Bite it for me,” Stiles says.  It’s a cheesy line, but Peter can’t resist it.  He sucks and bites and tastes blood when his tooth cuts into Stiles’ lower lip.  He pumps his hips a few more times, as hard as he can, and comes deep and long.  Stiles moans wantonly, hips shuddering and jerking as he comes all over his stomach at the feeling of hot come filling him.  

“I hate you,” Peter says, dropping Stiles’ legs to the floor with a thump.  

“Want to take a shower and then hate me again?  You can hate me in the bed this time,” Stiles mutters, completely worn out.  

“Want to see how many times I can hate you before sunrise?” Peter suggests, a sly smirk spreading across his face as he watches his come leak out of Stiles’ hole.

“Fuck, yes,” Stiles says with a grin.  

Grabbing Stiles under the legs and around the back, Peter deadlifts him off the floor and carries him to the bathroom.  

 

* * *

 

“Want to help me get even?” Peter asks as they lie in bed.  It’s six a.m. and they’ve just finished their fifth round.  Peter hasn’t felt so relaxed in years, and it’s making him open up again.  He doesn’t mind admitting to himself that seeing Stiles with that .357 pointed at his chest was enough to get his dick hard in three seconds flat.  Beyond that, seeing the man’s ass jiggle with every slap of his hand is something he wouldn’t mind becoming a regular feature in his life.  

“You think Chris and his father are the ones after you?” Stiles asks, head pillowed on Peter’s chest.  

“I’m sure they’re not the only ones, but they’re a start,” Peter says, combing a hand through Stiles’ damp hair.  

“Only if we can take out the ambassador at the same time,” Stiles says cheekily.  “We’re going to need the money for our retirement.  We’re going to buy a little shack on the beach and fuck like this every day until we die.”

“I could think of worse things,” Peter says, filling Stiles in on everything he knows of the Argents.

With the entire county library system and a bunch of illegal government IDs at Stiles’ disposal, Stiles is able to trace track documents easily.  He finds Gerard Argent’s stronghold in just a few hours and outfits them with fake identities and credit cards an hour after that.  With the credit card in hand, Peter takes Stiles on a shopping spree.  They treat themselves to new suits and casual wardrobes as well as a few unregistered firearms.  

It’s Stiles' idea to get a suite in the same hotel the ambassador is spending his last night in.  They spend the entire afternoon fucking on every piece of furniture in the lavish suite, including the spa shower and soaking tub.  After dinner and dancing in the hotel’s top floor restaurant, Stiles and Peter pound their last round of drinks and follow a group of three men into the elevator.  

They just barely catch the elevator door, giggling and tripping over each other.  Stiles presses the button for their floor before falling into Peter’s arms and attempting to swallow his tongue.  “Take me to bed and spank me until I cry,” Stiles whispers into Peter’s ear without bothering to lower his voice.  The men fight to keep from staring as Peter sucks a large mark onto the side of Stiles' neck, leaning over as he does so.  He pulls the emergency stop button and straightens up immediately.  

In one smooth, sober movement, Peter has pulled two handguns and Stiles has his Desert Eagle pointed at the ambassador’s head.  “Thanks for the money,” he says cheerfully before pulling the trigger.  The bodyguards fall under Peter’s bullets and they take a moment arranging the bodies nicely for photographs.  Peter pulls off their bloody jackets and lets the elevator descend again.  They climb up the elevator shaft and disappear into the night, drunk on the adrenaline high.  It’s all too easy to charge a sketchy motel room on the outskirts of town and fuck Stiles against the bathroom door.

Peter sends evidence of their hit off to the appropriate parties while Stiles pulls tiny splinters of wood out of his reddened ass.  Peter smiles and grabs a pair of tweezers from their now well stocked first-aid kit.  He helps Stiles to remove the evidence of the rough sex they’d had against the unpolished motel door.  Stiles smiles at him over his shoulder, and he knows they’ll get along splendidly.

 

* * *

 

”So the house is here,” Stiles says, pointing at a map they’d picked up at a convenience store on their way out of town.  “And they’re going to have guards all over the place.”

“And surveillance,” Peter adds, rubbing his forehead with a weary hand.  

“Right, of course,” Stiles says, pacing around their tiny motel room.  They’ve been here for three days.  Peter’s already been wired their reward money, and he’s itching to just take it and run away, but Stiles won’t let him do it.  He knows Stiles is right, he won’t sleep well until they’re all dead, but every time they have sex, Peter thinks he might be able to forget his past for one more night hating Stiles.

“So what we should really do,” Stiles says, stopping mid-stride to stare at Peter, is not hide at all.”

“You’re suggesting I just walk right up to the house and ring the doorbell?”

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting,” Stiles says, grinning.

“You know they’re going to search me for weapons before I get inside.”

“That’s where I come in.”

“You’re not letting yourself get captured,” Peter protests immediately, wondering when he got so attached to his murderous shadow.  

“Who said anything about getting captured?” Stiles asks, all too pleased with himself.  “I’m going to pick them off one by one and then I’ll join you in the boardroom, or dungeon, or whatever creepy name they have for their headquarters.”

“They’re likely to call it the study,” Peter says, remembering how often Chris used the word to describe his father’s office.  The place reeked of cigar smoke and stale blood.  He should have seen that bastard coming a mile away.  

“Fine,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.  “I’ll kill everyone in the house and I’ll meet you in the study.”

“Alright, but if things get out of hand, you run for it and let me fight my own way out.”

“Not a chance, big guy, not a fucking chance,” Stiles says, grinning.  He looks mad with it, mischevious and sinful, and Peter gets hard just looking at him.  He’s completely fucked.

 

* * *

 

“Kiss for luck!” Stiles crows, sliding across the hood of their rented sedan to stick his tongue down Peter’s throat and give his dick a nice hard squeeze before darting off into the woods.  It’s a several mile hike from where they parked, but Peter couldn’t see any other way around the surveillance they were sure to have around the place.  

“I hate you!” Peter calls after his retreating back.

“I hate you, too!” Stiles yells from off in the distance, walking backward to get one last look at Peter.  

Fucked.  Peter is absolutely fucked.  And he’s about to walk to his death, all because this skinny little murderer asked him to.  What has the world come to?

Peter holsters two handguns and checks for extra ammunition before setting off.  He knows they’ll be confiscated as soon as he makes it in the door, but he’d rather have his own guns on hand and win them back than be forced to deal with whatever bullshit weapons the Argents have at their disposal.  

When he finally reaches the manor, Peter raises his fist to knock, but doesn’t get the chance.  The door swings open and an honest to god butler greets him.  

“Mr. Argent has been expecting you,” the man says, holding out a silver tray.  “Weapons on the tray, please, Mr. Hale.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but it’s nothing he hasn’t been expecting.  He lays his guns and extra clips on the tray and watchings the butler leave them by the entryway.  It’s not half a minute before he’s escorted past no less than a dozen guards, some male, some female, and then lead to the study.  

“Ah, Mr. Hale,” Gerard Argent says, not bothering to get up from behind his desk.  “It’s been quite some time since I’ve seen one of your kind.  You look terrible.”  His hand rests on the hilt of some sort of electric weapon.  Peter doesn’t like the looks of it and is sure he won’t appreciate what it feels like either.  

“I’d say the same about you,” Peter says, taking the offered seat opposite the desk, “except you look exactly the same.  Been going to the same barber all this time, have you?  They did have a thing for that corrections officer look.”

“I saw that little whore of yours crawling around our back windows,” Gerard says, pointing to a screen to his left that’s showing what looks to be live video footage of Stiles.  Peter can hear gunshots in the distance, and he knows an unsilenced magnum when he hears one.  Stiles is doing just fine.

“I’m sure I’ll get the chance to introduce you shortly,” Peter says with a smile, not even really sure what he’s doing here.  They didn’t have to do this.  They could have taken the money and run.  Now he’s got to wait around and listen to Gerard Argent spew ignorant bullshit while Stiles fights for his life.  He taps his fingers on the table, itching for his guns.  “He’s very proficient.”

“It’s not like you to take a partner,” Gerard says, hands trailing over the weapon that’s still lying on the desk.  “You must know we’ve been watching you for some time.”

“Why wait?  Why haven’t you killed me before now?” Peter asks, honestly curious.  He hasn’t exactly been keeping a low profile.  He’s taken out several big names in the last ten years alone.  Gerard would have known exactly how to get a hold of him.  

“Sentiment, I guess you could say,” Gerard spits, frowning at his watch.  “He’s late.”

“Who’s late?” Peter asks.

“You know who.”

“Stiles will be due any minute as well,” Peter points out, hoping things aren’t about to get ugly.  

“I’m not worried about your little plaything,” Gerard says, picking up the stick and walking toward Peter.  “We’ll capture him soon enough.”

There are several more shots fired somewhere in the distance, not magnums this time, and Peter’s head jerks around at the sound.  His hands fly up to block the jab from Gerard, but there’s nothing he can do to stop the shock from going through him.  The man steps behind his desk again and Peter watches him from the floor, writhing and biting into his own lip.  

Two men enter and tie him to the antique Fauteuil chair he had just been sitting in.  Peter slumps in the confines, the zip ties digging into his skin.  That is no ordinary taser.  If Peter were a smaller man, it may have knocked him unconscious.  “Go find my son,” Gerard says, stepping up to Peter’s chair and crouching down.  

“You should have died with the rest of them,” he says, fitting a set of brass knuckles onto his right hand.  “Exceptions set dangerous precedents.  I never should have allowed it.”  He swings at Peter’s jaw and then his stomach.  Peter nearly chokes on the blood in his mouth when he gasps for breath.  

So Chris had feelings for him after all… it’s odd that it makes Peter angry, even after all this time, but it does.  He would rather have died.  It would have been more merciful to kill him with the rest of his family than allow him to live without them.  Gerard’s fake kindness doesn’t fool him.  Peter is as angry and full of bloodlust as if it were just yesterday.  

“Ah, there you are,” Gerard says, straightening up after taking several more swings.  Peter’s eyes are already starting to swell and his nose is broken.  His mind wanders for a moment, wondering how often Gerard Argent needs to buy a new rug for his study.  He must have a year’s supply of pretentious-ass chairs in the basement for such a purpose.  

A few more gunshots go off, but Peter’s eyes don’t stray this time.  They’re fixed on the second doorway of the study that has opened to reveal Chris Argent.  He’s just as handsome as he’d been when Peter was sixteen, though he’s aged considerably in that time.  His hair may be graying, but his eyes are as sharp and clear blue as they ever were.

“Hello, Christopher,” Peter says, wincing through a smile.  “Lovely to see you again.”

“Peter,” Chris whispers, eyes widening.  This apparently was not what he was expecting to find in his father’s study.  

“Now, son,” Gerard says, opening his desk drawer to pull out a dagger.  “You’re going to do what you should have done a long time ago, and end this family once and for all.”

Never taking his eyes of Peter, Chris steps forward and picks up the dagger.  

“I don’t care how you do it, just get it done.  Drag it out if you want, or make it quick, but you’re not leaving this room until the last Hale is dead.”

Peter can almost hear Chris swallow through the lump in his throat.  “Yes, father,” he says blandly, stepping toward Peter with sorrow in his eyes.  Chris’ thoughts are written all over his face.  His eyes dart around the room before meeting Peter’s eyes again.  He looks for something there, and finds it.  Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Chris raises the dagger and draws it down Peter’s arm, flaying a three-inch piece of skin off his forearm.  

He bites down on his lip to avoid crying out and raises his head to meet Chris’ eyes again.  They’d been in love once, or so he thought.  Now Chris has a wedding ring on his finger, but his face looks gaunt and hollow.  Something has gone drastically wrong in his life, and if Peter didn’t know any better, he’d say it happened recently.  

Chris quickly flicks his eyes back to the floor.  Peter hears a few more gunshots and then scuffling upstairs.  He knows if he can hang on another ten minutes, Stiles will join them, he just isn’t sure what Chris is capable of doing to him in those ten minutes.  Chris looks at him again, eyes searching, and Peter nods, praying the man will understand his meaning.  

Leaning forward, Chris licks his lips and then makes use of the dagger again, this time on the other arm.  It’s hard to breathe with his nose broken, so Peter starts to inhale through his mouth.  It sounds garbled and wet, and he can see a pained expression flash across Chris’ face.  This isn’t what he wants, but he’s doing it anyway, forever under his father’s thumb.  

“Daddy?” a voice calls from outside the door.  A beautiful brunette girl walks in, a quiver on her back and a bow in her hand.  “There’s this crazy guy running around the house.  He told me all sorts of odd stuff and told me to find my father.  What’s going on?” she asks as she strides into the room, taking in the scene.  

“Nothing, sweetie,” Chris says, eyes tearing up as he looks away from Peter, who sits bleeding and panting before him.  “Just doing a little work for your grandfather.”

“Is this Peter?” the girl asks, stepping forward to get a better look.

“Who told you that?” Gerard snaps at her, clearly not much of a doting grandfather.  He gets up from the desk quickly and reaches for her, gripping her arm tight enough to make her mouth tighten into a thin line.

“I told you, there’s this crazy guy running around the house.  Said I shouldn’t have to waste my time with the bow and arrow you keep giving me.  Then he stole a handful of my sour patch kids and told me to come in here before I got hurt.”

“Don’t listen to a thing that man says,” Gerard growls, digging his fingers in even tighter.

“He could have killed me and he didn’t, I kind of liked him,” she says, forcing a laugh out of Peter.  “He was funny, even when he was pointing a giant gun at me.”

“He has that effect on people,” Peter says, grinning through the pain.  “I’m Peter, and you are?” he asks, raising his fingers to wave at the woman from where his arms are tied down.  

“Allison,” the woman says, smiling sheepishly at him.  “I’m staying here for the summer.  Training.”

“I didn’t know Christopher had any children,” Peter says wryly, watching Gerard out of the corner of his eye.  The man has gone for the electric whip again, though there’s nothing Peter can do about it.  

“Watch your tongue,” he shouts into Peter’s face, jabbing him in the stomach with the whip.  Peter cries out, but can only writhe in his restraints.  Tears prickle at the corner of his eyes, but he chokes them back.  He can handle this.  Stiles will get there soon, and he’ll walk out of here a free man.  “Allison just lost her mother.  I tracked you down to cheer my son up.  He was so upset when you got away.  I knew he’d want to finish the job.”

“Is that what he told you?” Peter groans, struggling to raise his head.  “That’s not even a good lie, Christopher.”

“I never—”

“—Of course you didn’t,” Peter chimes in.  “I couldn’t have expected you to ask your father to spare the life of your underage boyfriend.  No need to apologize, Christopher.”

“Stop calling me that!” he barks, raising the dagger to Peter’s throat.  

“You never did come out of the closet, I wager,” Peter goes on, unperturbed by the knife pressing against his flesh.  “Too bad, you were excellent at sucking cock.  Could have made a career out of it.”

Letting out an inhuman yowl, Gerard took that opportunity to shock Peter again, forcing him to involuntarily throw himself into the blade at his throat.  The cut wasn’t deep, but it was already bleeding freely.  When Peter could finally raise his head again, Chris’ shocked face swam into view.  

“I didn’t even get the chance to mention that you bottomed for me,” Peter adds, panting through his mouth like an animal.  

“Don’t—” Chris pleads, eyes watery with frustrated tears.  “Don’t make it any worse.”

“Well I can hardly make it better,” Peter says

“End this, Chris,” Gerard growls.  “Do it now or I will torture him to insanity.”

“I’m sorry,” Chris whispers, leaning in and sliding the knife into his stomach.  

Peter gasps, and then gulps the air back into his lungs immediately like it’s the last breath he’ll ever get.  “Fuck you, and your beard of a wife.  That must have been torture for you,” he grinds out between clenched teeth.  

Narrowing his eyes, Chris darts forward again, slicing into Peter’s stomach once more.  

It burns like getting shot, but without the extra impact.  Peter knows he can take it.  He’s been shot and stabbed before, and Chris is going for the superficial wounds.  Gerard is watching though, so Peter knows he has to make it look good.  

“I left your father alive.  Which is more than I can say for you,” Peter grunts, wishing he could wash the blood out of his mouth.  His tongue is tacky and feels too big for his mouth.  It makes his words come out slow and dumb.  He hates sounding weak.  “I’m not sure that you had the better end of that deal, though.  I might have been doing you a favor.”

“Not another word, you piece of shit,” Gerard shouts, jabbing the electric whip into Peter’s throat where it’s already bleeding.  

Peter can’t stop himself from screaming this time.  The pain is exquisite and he can feel the blood gushing from his throat, saturating his shirt.  

“Has he been beating the gay out of you all this time?” Peter chokes out, spitting blood on the floor as he struggles to speak.  “No wonder he made you take a wife.  I’m surprised you could get it up enough to get someone knocked up.  Well done.  I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Not another word about my wife,” Chris grows, going for a more showy target this time.  He brings the knife down right between the knuckles of Peter’s left hand.  

Peter screams long and loud.  He goes hoarse with it, can feel the skin in his throat cracking with the force of the projection.  The pain in his throat is nothing to that of his hand.  He can feel his bones grinding against the metal blade.  Clenching his teeth, he brings his eyes back up to Chris.

“He did a number on you, didn’t he?” he asks.  It’s not a kindness.  He’ll never show Chris Argent a kindness again.  “At least your daughter seems to have a heart,” he adds, catching Allison’s eye.  She’s crying openly, her hand covering her mouth as she looks on in horror.  

“This man is a killer, Allison,” Gerard says in that gritty voice of his that sets Peter’s teeth on edge.  “He murdered your Aunt Kate in cold blood.”

“I wouldn’t say it was cold blood,” Peter adds, licking his lips, hoping for a little bit of relief for his aching throat.  “It felt hot to the touch at least, when it splattered across my face.”

“Allison, I think you should leave now.  Things are about to get ugly,” Gerard says, attempting to usher his granddaughter out the same door she came in.  

“It’s true, Allison,” a familiar voice says from behind Peter.  He lets out a sigh of relief when Stiles comes into view.  “Things are about to get very ugly.  I suggest you leave and never come back to this house again.  

“What are you going to do to them?” she asks, eying the Desert Eagle Stiles is holding in his right hand and the other pistol in his right.  Three more are tucked into his belt.  

“Only what they deserve,” Stiles says, ducking down to press a kiss to Peter’s unmarred cheek.  “How you holding up, hot stuff?”

“Better now,” Peter groans, twisting his wrists to get some circulation back to his hands.  HIs forearms continue to bleed, but he pays it no mind.  There will be scarring there, but it’s his hand that he’s really worried about it.  “Do you have any idea how hot you look with all those guns in your pants?”

“I’m just _so_ happy to see you, Mr. Sexy,” Stiles says, swinging his hips around in a circle and laughing.  “At least three times as happy as usual,” he says, pointing to each of the holstered guns with the pistol he’s already holding.  

“Would you mind?” Peter asks, nodding toward his left hand.  At least Chris had chosen his non-dominant hand.  That was a small mercy that he didn’t think he’d get from the man.  

“Of course not, muffin,” Stiles says, shoving the pistol in the back left pocket of his jeans and yanking the dagger out of Peter’s hand.  A spray of blood escapes the wound and Peter bites down hard on his lip while Stiles cuts his bonds.  “There you go.”

“Thank you,” he says, pulling Stiles in for a kiss, ignoring the other three people in the room.  “Now give me my guns.”

“Maybe just one gun for now,” Stiles says, holding out one of Peter’s handguns he had obviously taken from the hall table.  “I don’t think you’ll be shooting two handed for a while.”

“Fuck off,” Peter says, taking the gun and checking the clip.  

“Love you too, boo,” Stiles says, laughing.  It’s been several minutes, but Stiles has never taken his gun off of Gerard Argent.  

“Now, Allison,” Peter says, training his gun on Chris.  “I’m going to need you to leave now.”

“I’m not leaving him here,” she says, stepping up to stand beside her father.  

“Then I can shoot gramps over here, right?” Stiles says, not waiting for an answer before he pulls the trigger and puts an end to Gerard Argent, patriarch of one of the largest crime families in America.  

Allison screams, and Chris winces but doesn’t move otherwise.

“Allison,” Stiles says, blowing on the barrel of his Desert Eagle.  “I’ll give you a big bag of sour patch kids if you’ll get your cute butt out of here so we can pop your old man.  Get it?  Pop your old man,” Stiles says, laughing in that bizarre way that reminds Peter that he’s fallen for a man who is completely unhinged.  

“I can’t,” Allison says, meeting Peter’s eyes and then stepping in front of her father, directly in front of Peter’s gun.  

“I’m too tired for this shit, Stiles,” Peter groans, bleeding hand applying pressure to the wound on his left side.  “Can you get her out of here?”

“Look, cupcake,” Stiles says, aiming his gun at Allison as well.  “I get that he’s your dad and all, but this is a very bad man you’re defending.  He killed my dirty boo’s entire family and broke his heart.  Does that sound like someone who deserves saving?”

“He didn’t want to do it.  Can’t you see he was a victim here too?” she pleads, grasping her father’s hand and pulling it in tight to her chest.  “It was wrong of grandpa to do those things to you, but that doesn’t mean we have to keep making the same mistakes forever,” she says, getting her father’s attention.  “Let us leave now, and we’ll never darken your door again,” she says, looking at Peter now.  He can tell she’s speaking in earnest, but he isn’t sure that he cares.  

“I loved you once, but I can’t let you leave here alive,” Peter says, raising his gun in one shaking hand.  He’s lost a lot of blood, he knows he needs to get to a hospital, but something is keeping him rooted to this spot, with his gun trained on his first lover’s daughter.  

“Allison, sour patch kids, now,” Stiles says, shooing her toward the door with his gun.  

“You do this, and I’ll start the hunt up again,” she says, narrowing her eyes at the pair of them.  “If you kill my father, I’ll send ever hitman in North America after you.  I have the money.  You’ll never rest again.”

Stiles looks to Peter, tilting his head in consideration.  

“Let us go now, and we’ll retire.  I’ll make sure he never touches a gun again.  Wherever you’re headed, we’ll go in the opposite direction.  We’ll start walking now and we won’t stop for three thousand miles, I swear it,” she says, holding out her hand for Peter to shake.  

Peter steps to the side so he can see around her to Chris.  His eyes are wide, his grip tight on his daughter’s wrist.  He’s afraid, but not for himself.  He’s got something more to lose now, and he’s holding it tight in his hand, unwilling to let go.

“You’re a changed man, aren’t you?” Peter asks honestly, searching Chris’ face for some sort of penance.  His eyes are such a clear pale blue, it brings Peter right back to the beginning, makes his breath catch.  “You’re going to hang your gun belt up for good.  You’re going to forget my name and never speak it again,” Peter says, never taking his gun off of Chris.  “You’re going to leave this house and never return.  You’ll never bother Stiles or me ever again.  Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Chris says, licking his lips and lacing his fingers through his daughter’s.  Peter can see the gears turn in his mind.  He’s an inch away from freedom, can almost taste it on his tongue, but is still prepared for death.  “I’m sorry,” he says, swallowing hard.

“I don’t care anymore,” Peter says, all the fight gone out of him.  “Get out.  Now,” he barks at them.  Chris yanks Allison from the room and with one fearful look back, is gone from Peter’s life for good.  He waits until they’re out of the house, the door slamming shut behind them before he lowers his weapon.

Peter collapses into the chair, completely exhausted.  

“You let him go,” Stiles says dumbly.  

“She seemed like a good kid,” Peter says, letting his eyes slide shut.  “She didn’t deserve to lose both of her parents.”

“Neither did you,” Stiles says.

“Neither did you,” Peter adds, wincing when he brings his hand up to test his nose.  

“We need to get you to the hospital.”

“Why?” Peter asks, checking the wound on his neck with his fingers.  It’s still bleeding, but it’ll stop soon enough if they apply pressure.  

“Because I hate you, you fucking idiot.”

“You’re the one that made us come here,” Peter argues, far too tired to argue properly.

“I thought you wanted him dead.”

“So did I,” Peter says, opening his eyes to look at his partner.  

“I guess that’s it then,” Stiles says, pulling off his shirt to rip it into bandages.  He wraps one around Peter’s hand and ties it off, frowning.  “Where to next?  Fiji?  Easter Island?  Floreana?”

“Next, you take your pants off and we fuck in every room of this house.  Then, we’ll think about Floreana.”

“There are dead bodies in every room of this house,” Stiles points out, gesturing toward Gerard’s body that lies not three feet from Peter’s shoes.  

“Good,” Peter says, pulling himself into a standing position and tugging on his belt buckle with one hand.  

“I’m serious Peter, there’s blood everywhere.  I like pain, but the blood I could do without,” he says, testing Peter’s reaction.  

“What about the hammock I saw out on the porch?” Peter asks.  “Kill anyone in there?”

“No…Not that I recall.”

“We’ll start there then,” Peter says, leaning on Stiles for support as he starts to walk away.  

“I hate you,” Stiles says, laughing and rolling his eyes.

“I hate you more,” Peter agrees, letting Stiles take his weight and lead them through their spoils of war.


End file.
